I Lived Like Khloé Kardashian For a Week

I'm just going to put this out there. Once a month, I have a recurring dream that I meet Khloé Kardashian and we take an instant shine to each other. Before the sequence is done, she's introducing me to Kourtney and Kim as her raddest new friend. But as she reaches for her phone, right before we can take a selfie, I wake up, covered in clamminess and regret. I'm not telling you this so you can judge me for having a seriously vapid subconscious, but so you understand why I was inspired to literally live out my dream. And if I can't meet the boldest, brassiest, most outspoken Kardashian sister, I thought, why not become her and then take my own gosh darned selfie. With Khloé gracing our cover of REDBOOK, I figured it was perfect timing to go on this journey. So I grabbed a copy of her freshly released book,Strong Looks Better Naked, fired up a request for a waist trainer and boob tape, and committed to living the next seven days with passion and intention, just like Khloé.

A post shared by Khloé (@khloekardashian) on Nov 17, 2015 at 8:03am PST

Part 1: The Workout

Khlo-Money, as she refers to herself, begins every morning at 5 a.m. with some hardcore body blasting. I compromised with a 7 a.m. wake up, hit snooze for 32 minutes and then I, too was ready to get sweaty with my celebrity personal trainerSave the Last Dance soundtrack.

I spent the first eight minutes of my waking hours shoving every last inch of my back bacon into my newly acquired Amia waist trainer (the one Khlo swears by / is probably paid to endorse).

Khloe Kardashian Instagram

It's considerably more comfortable than it appears, which isn't saying much seeing as it looks like a torture device Renaissance bar wenches were forced to wear for tips. Unlike the voluptuous maidens AS SEEN ON TV (read: the Kardashian Klan), I had an aggressive uni-boob and fupa for days. But I did stand a little bit prouder.

When I got the gym, I was relieved to find that it was just me and a standoffish pensioner, so I didn't have to be embarrassed by my malformed physique or my commitment to wearing the controversial device, designed to make your tummy sweat more, because that's apparently a good thing.

Besides having trouble reaching down for dumb bells, working out with a waist trainer on wasn't quite the hell I was expecting it would be. Plus, I was distracted by my burning legs that hadn't been exercised in weeks, besides an impromptu Kris Kross dance sesh, cause mac daddy always makes me jump.

After about six squats (Khlo is all about the legs), I was considering giving up, but then I remembered something she said in her book, "Suffering is not caused by pain but by resisting pain." She was referring to how she coped with her post-Lamar heartache, not these butt busters, but I used the mantra to push on, that is until "Future" started rapping about pissing codeine, and I had to take a break to switch off Khloé's playlist. Sorry, Khlo, I'm just more of a Paula Abdul kinda gal.

A post shared by Khloé (@khloekardashian) on Oct 27, 2015 at 9:18am PDT

By the end of my 30-minute installment, I made the rookie mistake of weighing myself, thinking surely I must have dropped a solid 20 pounds in belly sweat alone. Feeling defeated by the number glaring back at me, my mind turned to a passage in Khloé's book: "You're training for life. Stop looking at the numbers on the scale. This is about health, not numbers. And stop being in such a rush. There is no elevator to success; you have to take the stairs."

I happily mulled this over on the elevator ride back up to my apartment.

Part 2: The Diet

Koko Loko, as North calls her favorite aunt (sorry, Kourt) begins each day with a black coffee. Even if it makes her a sociopath.

Come 8 a.m., she has a big glass of water, oatmeal and a protein shake. I skip the oatmeal because I prefer my carbs to come with cake and grab a hard boiled egg instead (I enjoy the smell of feet in the morning). I try not to gag as my Khlo-kolored lipstick rubs off on the whites.

Later, I have my first sip of Lyfe Tea–a teatox which all of the Kardashians heavily hawk. I was nervous about trying something that had side effects celebrating impromptu poop, but down the hatch it went. Bring it, deviant cramps!

Khloe Kardashian Instagram

At 11 a.m., like KK, I snacked on an apple with peanut butter. It feels like a cheat because lunch is just two hours away, but whatevs, if Khlo can drop 35 pounds this way, I'm game.

By lunchtime, I was pumped to learn that her go-to is a Chinese chicken salad, but unlike the ones I still dream about from the Cheesecake Factory, her recipe involves none of that delightfully sugary dressing…or fried noodle crackers. Oh well. Life is about making sacrifices for what you believe in, like in this case, immediate weight loss.

At 3 p.m., she nibbles on some of her homemade hummus, chopped veggies, and edamame. I didn't have time to hand smash chickpeas so I bought the cheap stuff from the supermarket that was about to turn.

Dinner at 7 is steamed veggies and salmon. Kind of a snore, but I spend the rest of the eve feeling smug about eating lean.

As a special treat, I make myself a Kris Jenner Kocktail, which is a vodka soda, but I felt like less of a heathen draining it on a school night, knowing it has such a klassy name. Luckily the elixir makes me forget about the fishy smell lingering in my shoebox apartment.

At 9, she delights in a bowl of fruit with plain Greek yogurt, but I didn't feel like waking up all dairy gassy so I skipped that too. Plus, if I'm going to spike my glycemic levels while I'm trying to unwind, I at least want chocolate to be involved. Or a synthetic Quest bar that kinda, sorta, almost tastes like chocolate. Instead, I have some berry-infused water (Khlo keeps about 12 different bottles in her fridge, which I'm totally adapting).

A post shared by Khloé (@khloekardashian) on Nov 16, 2015 at 4:39pm PST

All in all, her diet is very much doable. I repeated it for the rest of the week, knowing I'd be slipping into a whole lot of bodycon by the end, and admittedly I did feel more lithe, if a bit bored.

Part 3: H &M

H&M is what Khloé refers to as her hair and makeup (not to be confused with the store where I buy my cotton camisoles, aka, lingerie). My own regimen usually takes about 15 minutes—more if I decide to wash my locks, which according to clean hair-shamers, I do too often. My routine consists of applying about 12 coats of mascara, some light brow penciling, and the occasional liner, if I'm feeling fancy.

I grew up in a hair salon, watching my single mom stylist beautify folks every day. You'd think I would have picked up a thing or two but I am absolutely clueless when it comes to makeup application. Or maybe I've actively stayed ignorant over the years because I'm afraid that once I start learning how to wear foundation, the one day I stop, everyone will ask if I'm feeling sick. I'd rather pallid be my signature look.

So, I knew that in order to transform into my best, most Khlo-riffic self, I'd need to recruit an army of pros.

A post shared by Khloé (@khloekardashian) on Oct 8, 2015 at 9:07am PDT

First came the spray tan, which according to an insider, the sistahs K do once a week. But it couldn't be any old misting. I'm too method for that. Hot off spray painting the Victoria's Secret goddesses for their annual fashion show— which didn't make me feel self-conscious at all—artist to the stars, Krystin Pradas came to my studio for some private bronzing time. Forty minutes later, my pasty pooch had a lovely Armenian glow. Bonus: I got to keep the disposable underwear she gifted me. And although I smelled vaguely of livestock, I did look about two pounds slimmer.

Next came the makeup. A gal from the literal Glamsquad came to over to kountour the krap out of me. It's like Uber, except instead of a car, a team is delivered to your home to pile on mounds of concealer while you're still in your sweaty p's. Or, in my case, some dirty jeans and half a Kardashian costume.

I was initially concerned that I'd love my new veneer so much that I'd become addicted to it like that dark chapter in 2000 when I never went anywhere without body glitter. But I am relieved to say that despite the best efforts of hyper-cool Brittany Whitfield, this will be my last attempt at face lacquer. My horrified husband couldn't even look me in the smoky eye.

Of course the face mask makes sense for Khlo who has unforgiving lights and a camera pointed at her 12 hours a day, but it's not for a commoner.

Later, I plopped my blonde-ish wig, courtesy of LUXHAIR NOW's Sherri Shepherd collection, atop my thin hair because I didn't have the foresight to try this experiment a month ago, when Khlo was still a brunette. As you can see from the photos, I looked like a dang fool, which is nothing against the wig—it was actually fantastic—but I learned quickly that I can pull off neither caramel-hues, nor extensions.

Feeling new levels of insecure as I approached my building's lobby, my doorman, who didn't recognize me beneath the gunk, gave my husband some serious side eye. Good to know that if my hubby ever took home an escort, Mo would have my back.

Part 4: Fashion

My style can be best summed up as man repellent—if it's boxy, blousy, has a bow, or can double as maternity wear, I'll buy it. In both colors. So it was with a great deal of trepidation that I embarked on the wardrobe portion of the Khloé transformation. Even back when she was the self-proclaimed fat sister, Khlo-Nasty has always embraced bodycon, which I have a great deal of respect for. As a child chubette myself with the sartorial sense of a Mennonite, I've long admired her confidence, coupled with her cardinal brand of DGAF attitude.

Here I am in middle school, pictured in my favorite sweater vest. Shout out to Uncle Michael for the loaner.

So, I blasted some Kanye, wriggled my banana loaf into some industrial strength Spanx, and pretended that my baby maker was not in fact showing for my first ensemble. [baby maker, not pictured]

Getty Images

Next up, this NSFW jumpsuit.

In order to make it look this mediocre, my trusty husband had to help me affix two layers of boob tape. Before this moment, I never had reason to believe that my 31-year-old blouse bunnies were anything but perky (ish) but I was suddenly questioning everything. I don't know what backless, strapless holster only the Hollywood elite have access to, but standing there, saggy and exposed, and afraid to look anything but angry, a la Khlo, I really wished I could just step inside her excessively organized closet and steal whatever crazy glue she uses to keep her décolletage in place.

I thought maybe adding some of the Boob Tube bust protection pregnancy cream Khlo is obsessed with would make me look more pert, but I wasn't shelling out 48 bucks to boost my gals.

Khloé, who is famous for her candor, lives by the concept that honesty won't hurt a person if it comes from a loving place. So, standing there, lopsided, in front of a stained white curtain that separates my kitchen from my bed-livingroom, I asked my husband to tell me if I really looked as gross as I thought I did.

So, standing there, lopsided, in front of a stained white curtain that separates my kitchen from my bed-livingroom, I asked my husband to tell me if I really looked as gross as I thought I did.

After spending a few hours jerry-rigging an old lamp and a tattered paper bag together to make my photo shoot look like it didn't happen with an iPhone and an old wall, he was too exhausted to lie anyway.

"You've seen better days," he said.

Noted.

Because nothing can stop the force-field of determination that is Queen Khlo, I respectfully ignored his comments, strapped on some glittery shoes and grabbed a raspberry-infused water to stop myself from exploding.

Tottering towards the fridge in my too-small, too-tall heels, fearing that with one misstep, I would break an ankle I held so dear, I was reminded of something my heroine said in her book, "Face your pain, don't run from it," so I did just that, which is good because I couldn't run in these things anyway.

Not entirely sure why she's praying here, but I went for it.

Instagram

Exhausted from sucking in and trying to reflect the aura of a self-actualized woman who refuses to smile in photos, while feeling decidedly not fierce, I peeled off the weaponized footwear and the bandage dresses and let the athleisure part of the night take hold. Because if there's anything Khlo likes more than showing off her assets, it's perfecting permanently-headed-to-the-gym-chic.

Part 5: The Dreaded Selfie

Full disclosure: I have never taken a selfie and I quit Instagram when I realized it wasn't just a nifty filtering app, but I was in too deep now to ignore this very important part of the process.

I start my morning by applying my coffin-style press on nails (since when are there so many different nail shapes, by the way? What happened to square or round?) but didn't take into account that once these talons were on, I couldn't pop in contacts, zip my pants, or, ya know, hold my phone.

Khlo says negativity begets negativity and no one wants to be around that, so after three minutes, instead of letting those monstrosities make me cranky, I just ripped them off. Because I'm a grown up. I make the rules. There, that's better.

But it only took one snap for me to start feeling bad about myself.

My eyebrows that have been mismatched since I got too tweezer happy in '92 were certainly not on fleek. And why am I not allowed to smile? I look dumb not smiling. What's so serious about this scenario? I guess if I had Khlo's voluptuous lips, I'd pout more too, but c'mon. And why doesn't my phone have those mystical filters?

Suddenly wrapped up in a hideous feedback loop of narcissism and insecurity, while trying to capture an image that made me look half as good as I do when I'm grinning in a group of friends, I was reminded that Kimmy K once said it takes 1,200 selfies to take a decent one, and she has them professionally edited, no less. This makes me feel simultaneously better, and worse. The time it takes to snap 1,200 wannabe sultry selfies would be better spent doing literally anything else.

Finally, after about 30 minutes of giving myself vertigo trying to get the right head tilt to match Khlo's impossibly perfect pictures, I got one I like. But only because it stars the toilet paper roll. Oh, the glamorous life!

Earlier today, when a colleague reached for my phone, I snatched it back so quickly it may as well have had an album of peen pics on it. I was so embarrassed that she might see one of the 127 selfies I'd taken to capture the "I'm so sleepy, but I have a sexy secret to share" bedtime sign-off that she almost lost an arm.

Khloe Kardashian Instagram

In the end, I felt sort of dirty, like I needed to be cleansed with hours of NPR. It turns out, selfies just ain't my thing. But I'll never turn down a goofy "us"-ie. As long as you snap it. I can't be seen with fat arm.

Part 6: Spirituality and Reflection

Although my morning treadmill time is usually reserved for catching up on old episodes of Hart of Dixie, this week, I took an actual page out of Khloé's book and did some journaling whilst I jogged, something she does every day, and sometimes even while exercising. She's evidently much more dextrous than I am. After she's done, she tears up the passages. It's because she's worried the paparazzi will find them, but it also ties in nicely to what she says about second chances (she's a big believer in them).

In Strong Looks Better Naked, Khlo writes, "Every day is a clean page; every day is a another opportunity to write a new story. It's your story. Write the story you want to live."

After a decade of watching Keeping Up With the Kardashians (hey, no shame please), I've often wondered what it would be like to be obscenely wealthy, to not have to worry about how I'm going to support my mom on a non-reality star salary, and how it would feel to walk into any store and say, 'I'll take four—one for each of my impossibly beautiful sisters.' But let's face it. Having to look good everyday is difficult. Not to mention my disdain for figure-flattering garments. And while I value Khloé for allowing her life to be on display for my personal entertainment, I couldn't even handle the attention of putting a wig on at work. Ultimately, her story is not meant for me.

I now know for certain that the facade of Khlo's life is not what I'm after, but I did learn from her core values—from the way she lives with real integrity. She says she "works every day at silencing the nagging voice that says you'll fail." And so did I. This week, I went the extra mile to actually take care of myself, to go to the gym in the morning, and to not beat myself up the days I skipped. Heck, I even stopped drinking. Well, for four days, but it was a start.

"Life isn't about perfection. It's about growth," Khloé (or her ghost writer) says. Sure, it's a tad cliche, but it's also a comforting reminder that every day we get to begin again. And for me, tomorrow begins without the waist trainer and with a whole lot of Advil.

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